


I Know You Want What's On My Mind

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood, Darkfic, Episode: s03e19 Beaks in the Shell!, M/M, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Mark couldn't manage to hack into the Gizmocloud but when he sees Huey just sprawled out across the couch he figures there is another way to get back at Gizmoduck
Relationships: Mark Beaks/Huey Duck
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11





	I Know You Want What's On My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I should be (and am) working on the next chapter of Dirty Wings. But I saw Huey sprawled out on the end of the couch and my mind just went places.

Fuck Gizmoduck and his stupid genius brain and his stupid advanced programming skills. Fuck computer security. Fuck whoever invented passwords. This is all so _unfair_. Mark Beaks might not be the best at brainstorming fresh ideas, but his working knowledge of operating systems and how to hack them is normally top-notch but this? Fenton must have picked up on his hidden talent after the first time Mark had hacked the Gizmosuit and decided to step it up a level because Mark has been trying to break into his stupid open-source computer for a solid twenty minutes to no avail.

“Ugh,” he grunts with disgust, taking a step back from the computer he’s been standing hunched over for far too long. Raising his arms over his head, he intertwines his fingers and stretches until he feels a series of pops down his back. Shoulders loosened, he crosses his arms across his chest defiantly, tapping a foot in annoyance, staring at the stupid password screen. “Who even uses a PC these days? A desktop PC? Of course, you can’t just use a Waddle Airbook like a normal person.”

No response. Mark turns to stare at the overhyped superhero, looking ridiculous still sitting there in full armor within the suffocating walls of the tiny, underwhelming excuse of a bedroom, fully immersed in some cool cyber world that Mark can’t figure out how to break into. It’s totally _unfair_. Why does this loser get to be in the, what did that boy call it? The Gizmocloud? Why does he get to be in the Gizmocloud while Mark is stuck in the lame real world, standing in some dirty little room in a building that barely qualifies as a hovel let alone a house?

How has he fallen to this level, crawling through the window of some guy who lives with his mom just to try to steal some new VR helmet? He’s a billionaire. There are bathrooms in his mansion larger than this pathetic excuse for a bungalow. With his resources he should be changing the world with his technology, taking over the world with his technology. He shouldn’t even be picking up his own coffees, let alone stealing his own ideas.

Whatever, like there aren’t plenty of other VR headsets out there on the market. And most of those have already crashed and burned. There’s no reason to believe Gizmoduck’s gear will fair any better than the majority of those and even if it isn’t a total failure who really cares? VR doesn’t have lasting power. It’s just a fad.

That doesn’t mean there isn’t something else in this room that could be worth stealing, however. Where would Mark keep his secret inventions if he were a pathetic virgin duck in his twenties that had never moved out of his childhood bedroom?

Under the bed? What a sad little bed it is too. A pathetically small single that just screams “I HAVE NEVER HELD A GIRL’S HAND LET ALONE HAD SEX WITH ONE” to anybody who looks at it?

Bad idea. Mark doesn’t know why he’s surprised by the cardboard box he finds there. Beneath the mattress is the secret stash hideaway of every hot-blooded male since the printed page was first introduced, searching that area is just asking for trouble. But who even buys porn magazines these days? This isn’t the fucking middle ages! Every eighteen-year-old girl with a smartphone and a nice rack is out there posting videos of herself riding her boyfriend’s dick for everyone to see. Besides, static pictures are beyond boring. Mark is more of a hentai person himself, he has trouble beating one out these days without seeing an anime chick being violated by a monster with a cock the size of a hot water heater.

Despite himself, he pulls out a few of the magazines and flips through them. They’re well worn - wrinkled, folded in the corners, spines broken. Some of the pages crusty in areas. Mark makes a face and carefully avoids these spots on the pages. Care has been taken to wipe the pages of splatter, but he knows what a varnish of old dried semen looks like when he sees it. A decade ago, he had taken part in one of those cum jar challenges – slowly adding his ejaculate to a mason jar with the trapped figure of a scantily-clad Misa Amane within its confines. The slime had slowly eaten away at her, stripping off the paint and distorting her into a figure that seemed to have been molded of half-melted wax. Whenever he had removed the metal lid, the dried semen along the edges had flaked and scattered like sunburned skin.

The flakes on this magazine are similar in both consistency and shade.

But these magazines are older than his cum jar. How old would Fenton have been when he had procured them? Thirteen? Fourteen? Are underage teens allowed to just stroll into a sex shop and buy porn magazines? Were they allowed to over a decade ago? Or did he have to shell out cash to some hobo on the otreet to buy them for him? Mark can imagine the slip of a boy scurrying home with his precious find, the skin mag stashed away in an oversize backpack or maybe pressed against his stomach, concealed by a tightly zipped jacket. Unexplainably, he imagines a windbreaker specifically even though the duck is younger than himself by a decade and would have had the good fortune to miss out on the windbreaker era.

That just beats his point home though. He wasn't a teenager in the 90s Even a family as obviously lacking as the Crackshell-Cabreras must have owned a family computer fifteen years ago. Probably only one, maybe set up in the living room or a corner in the stuffy little kitchen. That overbearing bitch of a mother of his probably installed a porn lock on the thing. Which means that young Fenton must have lacked the computer skills of current Fenton because Mark could hack a fucking fifteen-year-old porn filter with one hand down his pants.

Of course, anything that could be hacked as easily as an ancient porn filter probably wouldn’t be worth stealing anyway.

Sighing, he tosses the magazines back into the half-collapsed box, then checks on the room’s inhabitant. Dude is like one of those performance artists at the beach who paint themselves silver and pose for pictures. A goddamn living statue. Can’t be that great of a VR if it doesn’t include any motion gloves or anything anyway. He’s probably in there fucking a hologram version of his own mother, the little pussy that he is. Probably the last cunt the guy ever touched in his life.

It’s almost insulting, to just be sitting here calmly within arm's reach of his nemesis, not even trading insults or threats. It feels like being ignored. Like maybe everyone out there is right, and that Mark is a nobody that even a loser like Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera won’t waste his time on. And now Mark is not only angry but mildly aroused from some shitty old porn mags. Though if he is going to be entirely truthful, he’s more turned on by the idea of an underage Fenton jerking it to them than he is by the actual women inside of them. Women are…fine. Good for casual hookups. A nice feeling hole to stick his dick in. But it’s difficult for him to get turned on by simple nudity these days. His tastes have been shaped and hardened like an Elven sword through years of hardcore pornography and expensive hookers. Humiliation, like that of a clandestine teenage boy being exposed to have been secretly masturbating to some ill-gotten pornography, is much more intriguing.

Mark glances around the room, thinking to himself as he rubs absent-mindedly at the half-formed bulge in his slacks. He’s not particularly hot and bothered, if he ignores it he knows it will go away within minutes, but it feels like a shame to waste it when he’s alone in this room. He should probably beat one out since he’s here and all, a form of passive-aggressive retaliation. _Look at me, I came here and spread my seed across your intimate space, I’m like the mighty male lion that murders your cubs and ravages your females_.

He could wipe his semen on his favorite plushie or something afterward. Petty, but it’s something.

Frowning at the collection of stuffed animals on one of the shelves, he tries to guess which one is the superhero’s favorite.

That’s when his attention is drawn outside the door.

It takes him a moment to zero in on what the noise is and where it is coming from. The snores are so quiet they are almost inaudible. Like the adorable little breaths of a dozing chihuahua. Oh, right. Mark had almost forgotten about Fenton’s kid out there napping on the couch. Boy’s a pretty sound sleeper.

Just how sound?

He’s exactly where Mark had left him earlier. Sprawled out over the edge, draped over the arm, ass up, facing the doorway to Fenton’s bedroom. He’s a small boy but he has a nice butt, plush looking with a nice display of creamy white feathers that beg to be splattered with dripping semen. His pert little tail points up almost parallel to his body, doing nothing to conceal the tight little hole. Pink and soft looking as a chewed-up wad of Bazooka bubblegum.

It’s like an open invitation. Maybe the kid has a crush on Gizmoduck, he seems like a little homo in the making. Perhaps he had thought if he presented himself for breeding like this his guy would take him up on the offer. _Oh, please, Fenton, stick it in and make a man out of me. I just love your big, dripping cock._ Maybe he's a well-trained catamite and the guy has been fucking the duckling for months.

Well, best not to let an offer go by unfulfilled. Generosity should always be accepted, after all, and turning down any form of it is bad manners.

All he is able to dig up for lubricant is a bottle of hand lotion on the coffee table. The label promises it provides “soothing relief from the most weather-chapped skin” and brags that it “was created by the fretting housewife of a Norwegian fisherman.” Well, if it’s good enough for a fisherman’s hands it must be good enough for a young boy’s virgin asshole.

He stands directly behind the duckling, smearing the greasy lotion onto his throbbing cock. It's cool, the chilliness of it almost shocking the arousal out of him. Strange texture, oilier than most lotion, as if a generous glob of Vaseline had been stirred in. It melts as it warms to his skin and it melts clear, leaving his dick wet and glistening. Mark licks his lips, excited seeing his shining blue-black cock so close to the soft, creamy tail feathers of the duckling. Despite some of the not-exactly-legal porn that he’s jerked off to in the past, he doesn’t consider himself a pedo. It’s about the thrill of the extreme, his taste in viewing materials, and fucking a young boy is one taboo he hasn’t had the pleasure of breaking yet.

He's so turned on by just the very idea of it that it only takes a half dozen pumps with his fist before he is fully hard and ready to go. His head looks exceptionally bulbous today.

Within seconds, the boy is awake. Only to be expected. It’s why Mark doesn’t take his turn pushing in slowly or any of that softcore porn bullshit. He just aims and pushes and the cockhead pops in and then there is a little cry of surprise and the boy is trying to get away. Half-asleep, dazed, confused, just knowing there is pain, and he needs to escape from it. His feet kick at empty air.

“You’re not going anywhere, little dude,” Mark informs him, grabbing him around the shoulders, his right arm going up and around his neck. He pulls the boy back further onto his cock and shudders. The kid is so damn hot and tight inside and the way he squirms and struggles is amazing. Better than one of the loose sluts he shells out money for. This is even better than the monster hentai. His dick might be entirely average in length and girth, but by the way that the kid is screaming, he must feel like it’s large enough to eviscerate him.

“Stop it!” The little boy is near hysterics as he screams to be let go. His stubby little fingers claw uselessly at the couch cushions. He tries to drag himself forward, away from Mark’s grip, but all he manages to do is displace the cushion itself, pulling it half towards him. It tumbles from his grasp, landing on the floor beside the sofa. The deck of the couch where it had been lying is littered with crumbs and feathers and a few loose coins. The boy flails, trying to hit at Mark with his scrawny arms as Mark pushes his head down into the empty space. “It hurts! Let me go!”

“Come on, bud,” Mark huffs, pressing him tightly against the side of the sofa with his hips. He gives him a hard thrust, burying his cock deep into the boy’s guts, and feels the asshole spasm around his shaft. He’s so hot and wet inside. Too wet and Mark knows it’s not just lubricant as he ruts into him. “I’m sure you let your pal Fenton fuck you all the time, don’t you? Just enjoy the ride.”

The boy screams again. And again. And again. He screams for help. He screams at Mark, calling him a psychopath, a pedophile, a pervert, a rapist. He screams at him to stop. He screams that it hurts, that he’s being torn apart, that he’s going to kill him. He screams even when words won’t come because Mark’s cock is buried halfway to his diaphragm and there is blood dripping from his abused asshole, coating Mark’s dick maroon and the creamy white feathers pink.

And he screams for Fenton.

But Fenton is busy, and the child’s screams go unheard by anyone except Mark and the sounds of his distress accomplish little besides making the entire experience even hotter for him. It’s just like one of the rape hentai. As if the boy’s made for this, his voice could rival any anime porn voice actress. None of the high-class hookers he has thrown away perfectly good cash on has screamed and struggled and sobbed this convincingly. None of them have put on a halfway convincing struggle. When the boy uses all his strength to ground his palms into the sofa’s deck and pushes back, trying to dislodge the older, larger man, he laughs and pushes the boy’s head down so far that his cheek presses against the hard couch deck. The position forces his back to arch dramatically, pushing his ass further into the air. The little tail is no longer pert and at attention, it presses against Mark’s cock, trying to lock off the entrance but something long and thick is in the way. The little asshole flutters around his hard-on and miraculously none of the tightness of the opening loosens.

Eventually, the boy goes quiet. Throat torn to shreds from the desperate wails. He continues to cry, quietly, but his voice is hoarse, gravelly. Soft. So soft that the wet sound of Mark’s cock driving into him is louder, more prominent, than his pathetic little whimpers. As is the steady squeaking of the sofa beneath them as it moves with each thrust of his hips. He takes his time, concentrating on the way the little sphincter spasms around his cock, at how the tightness seems to be sucking him in. The squelching of his dick as he bottoms out is obscenely pleasant, sending little shivers up Mark’s spine. Sexual ASMR from dicking a pre-teen, who knew?

“Good boy,” Mark breaths out heavily, releasing the boy’s head. He stays put, slumped over the arm of the couch, not even attempting to resist, so Mark uses his free hands to grab onto his hips instead. They’re soft, rounded. Duckling hips. Ducks are so blessed in the hip department. His fingers sink into the cushiony down, holding him in place. Holding him still so that each thrust of his hips leaves the boy whining in pain at the deepness. Mark stares down at the space between them, reveling at the way his penis looks, hard and dark and smeared with blood, and he knows he has to record this event. A flawed memory just won’t do, not when he can have a perfect replica.

He turns to reach for his phone and the boy takes his chance.

Mark wasn’t even aware a duckling could move that fast. He meets him at the other end of the couch, roughly hoisting him up before he even makes it to the floor. Laughing, he grabs the boy around the waist, tightening his arms around the tiny body, squeezing as hard as he can to subdue the child. He struggles, kicking, but his legs only kick at air and he can’t even reach the floor with Mark holding him against his torso like this. Still, it’s something like holding a wild animal, he’s small and slippery and he’s squirming like a wet fish. His shirt slides up, exposing his bare chest.

“Fenton!” And back to the screaming. His voice sounds like he’s gargled with crushed glass. How annoying. The crying and whimpering were nice but the screaming is starting to give him a headache. “Fenton! Help me! Fenton!”

“Fine,” Mark gets out through gritted teeth. He crushes the kid against himself, cutting off the screams by restricting his ability to breathe. “You want your hero so much then I’ll take you to him.”

He uses a couple of lavender ties he finds hanging on the closet doorknob to secure the boy to the bed. The kid doesn’t go without a fight though. He’s yelling and kicking and at one point he gets a bite onto his forearm. It hurts though his teeth are too small and short to pierce through both his cardigan and button-down; it still crushes the muscle and fat layers beneath and he knows there will be a bruise. Mark retaliates before he even has time to think, laying a large, resounding slap against the boy’s face with enough force to turn the boy’s head to the side. He sobs and calls out for his friend again. There is blood on his blunt orange beak. The duckling reaches out one hand for the superhero, his fingers trembling as they brush only air just inches from the Gizmoduck armor. 

“Uh uh uh, he can’t hear you, bud,” Mark taunts, grabbing the boy’s forearms. He hits the boy again, this time close-fisted against the side of the head. Stunned from the blow, he’s still as Mark knots the tie around his wrists. The duckling is so tiny that his arms are spread in a crucifix-like shape when he’s done, limbs reaching from one side to the other of the mattress and still not hanging over. Mark gives a few experimental tugs at the restraints, making sure they are secure. The skin beneath the fabric is exposed some, the feathers ruffled, the silken tie pushing against the grain.

He leaves the boy's legs free. Having them tied down would be inconvenient. Gripping the boy’s skinny thighs, he pushes him up and forward and takes him face to face so he can watch the boy cry beneath him. He’s still wet inside but Mark’s penis has started to dry from being exposed to the open air for so long. It makes the boy feel tighter inside, which is saying something because fucking an eleven-year-old duckling is already pretty damn revolutionary, and the friction is so extreme that Mark has to stop as soon as he bottoms out because he doesn’t want to come yet.

Despite himself, he can’t help but glance over at Gizmoduck sitting here. It’s not so much that he’s scared of Fenton snapping out of it and attacking him mid-screw, which is a possibility. No, rather, it feels exciting to be fucking the kid so close to his nemesis. An adrenaline rush. Mark has always been somewhat of an exhibitionist, he loves knowing other are women watching as he plows another one, but this is different. It’s a thrill, like jumping out of a plane without even a parachute. Part of him wishes Fenton was conscious of what’s going on mere inches from him. Not as Gizmoduck necessarily, he is far too powerful like this, but just as his normal mild-mannered self, sitting there chained up perhaps, unable to move to help his little friend. Helpless as he watches the boy ravaged right before his very eyes.

It’s somewhat of a suicide wish but his dick throbs at the idea.

Mark turns his attention back to the boy. His face is scrunched up, cheeks wet with tears, eyes clenched shut. Refusing to look at Mark even as he returns to fucking him in earnest. Long, deep thrusts to make it last. The slow drag as he pulls out nearly leaves him breathless, the push back in even worse somehow.

“Look at me or I’ll hit you again,” Mark commands, his voice even, low. None of his normal humor in the tone. He expects the duckling to ignore him, to refuse to even acknowledge his words, but the boy must be smarter than he looks. He must realize that Mark isn’t lying and he remembers how it felt to be struck by him because he opens one eye and squints up at him. There is a grimace on his face. “Both of them.”

“Please,” the boy whispers, looking up at him with the largest eyes Mark has ever seen in his life. They’re watering, red, and a bruise is already forming on the lid of the right one from where Mark had struck him. He sounds broken. Not just in the way that his voice is hoarse from screaming but in the way that all the fight has drained out of him. Mark reaches down to touch his face, stroking his sore cheek tenderly with the pad of his thumb. “It hurts so much, please stop.”

“Almost done, buddy,” Mark promises, pulling his hand away. He leaves a bloody smear in the rough shape of a handprint on the formerly pristine feathers.

With his left hand, he grips the boy’s fluid-sleek thigh and pushes him up further, spreading him wider so that he can shove in as much of himself as he can possibly fit into the tiny, quivering body. The other hand plants into the mattress beside the boy’s head, bracing himself as he thrusts hard and fast in a quick, jerky motion, allowing himself to fully enjoy himself for a scant few moments. The bed hits the wall hard enough to leave a dent. No holding back. The boy sobs beneath him as Mark pounds into his body, punching between his legs with the finesse of a gardener hacking at an overgrown plant. The boy struggles beneath him, trying to escape the onslaught of pain. Not in the way a person tries to escape another person’s hold but in the way a caged animal tries to escape a trap. Running on pain and instinct. There is nowhere to go and the silken ties bite at his bruised skin.

A man of his word, when it suits him anyway, Mark releases into the child within a minute of his promise. His entire body stiffens, every nerve in his body seemingly coursing with a pleasure he knows is as much mental as physical. His finger dig into the meat of the scrawny thigh hard enough to bruise. It is almost impossible to resist the urge to clench his eyes shut as his orgasm pulses through him but he forces himself to keep them open, to focus on the small boy beneath him as he receives his first load of a man’s cum. The boy’s eyes are closed again despite Mark’s demand to keep them open but that’s alright. It's more genuine like this. The little sobs are broken up by small, evenly spaced hiccups.

Only once the moment passes does Mark stop to consider how hard he gripped the kid’s leg. He’s such a petite creature, he could have easily broken one of his hollow little bones with so much force. He lays the leg down carefully as he pulls out, waiting to see if the kid complains about any unusual pain, but he doesn’t say a word so he must be fine.

Maybe he was made for this sort of thing. Some people are made to be abused, to be fucked and thrown aside like yesterday's leftovers. He's beautiful like this though, bloody and used with tears on his face. This time, he doesn't try to escape when Mark reaches for his camera. the duckling even obeys when Mark tells him to open his eyes and look at him but the eyes that meet his own are dull and dead. He makes sure to get several angles, to capture the pain on the delicate features and the drying blood on his thighs.

Mark uses a discarded shirt he finds on the floor to wipe the lotion and blood and semen off his own cock, leaving the boy as he is, stained with various bodily fluids. Then he fetches his slacks from the other room.

“You’ll be fine,” he says to the boy as he fastens the buttons. “It’s just a torn rectum, and I’m sure Gizmoduck will snap out of it soon and patch you up.”

The duckling doesn’t acknowledge his words. He doesn’t open his eyes. He lays there, breathing quietly, perhaps having escaped to some less troublesome existence in his mind. Mark throws the fluid-stained shirt over Gizmoduck’s head. He looks around the room one last time, trying to decide if there is anything worth taking with him but wherever Gizmoduck keeps his inventions, it doesn’t seem to be in his bedroom.

Ah, well, he’s already taken the most valuable thing in this entire house - a young boy’s innocence.

And when Gizmoduck finally leaves his perfect little cyber world, the real one will still be here, waiting for him, and in this world, he just quietly sat there and did absolutely nothing as his best friend was brutally raped beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> I’d apologize for this but you all know that would be a lie.
> 
> This is the first time I've written Beaks! I channelled a little 2008 4chan, a little Herbert Garrison, and a little SVU for his character here.
> 
> Also yes, I know Mark would probably just be caught and immediately arrested after this because he fucking left his semen all over and shit but whatever.


End file.
